a species of desperation
by Mira-Jade
Summary: In the end, his choice is simple. He must decide if the sins against him are greater than the sin he would commit by lashing out now, when he was needed more than ever. In the end, it all came down to the winter blood in his veins . . . An AU where the trip to Utgard goes much differently than expected.
1. Chapter 1

"**a species of desperation"**

**Genre**: Angst, Romance  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Time Frame**: _Thor_ AU  
**Characters**: Loki/Sif, Thor, Odin

**Summary**: In the end, his choice is simple. He must decide if the sins against him were greater than the sin he would commit by lashing out now, when he was needed more than ever. In the end, it all came down to the winter blood in his veins . . . An AU when the trip to Utgard goes differently than expected.

**Author's Notes**: I know, even more new fic from me! My muse has been on a roll this week, what can I say? But, that said, this fic is my salute to kick off the release of _Thor: The Dark World_. This story is already written in its entirety. It's six chapters long, and I will post a chapter a day to properly celebrate the new film. (For which I cannot wait. _Cannot_.) This story is completely self-indulgent and feel-good . . . at least, my version of feel-good, that is, so expect your angst and happy endings and shippery goodness. This is my thank-you to all of my loyal readers who have enjoyed exploring this world as much as I. You guys are the best. :)

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

* * *

_"a species of desperation"  
_by Mira_Jade

"We are not wounded so deeply when betrayed by the things we hope for as when betrayed by the things we try our best to despise. In such betrayal comes the dagger in the back." - _Thirst for Love_ by Yukio Mishima

.

.

Utgard was nothing but cold shadows and massive planes of glittering blue ice. Perhaps it would have seemed warmer in the sunlight. Perhaps, Loki thought dryly, if there was ever sunlight to be had.

Their company moved swiftly over the ice and the glacial drifts, heading towards what would have, at one time, been a bastion of power for the race of winter-born giants. The soles of their boots gripped at the ice, slipping before finding purchase. Their breath frosted on the air. Fingers tapped restlessly at steel, glinting in the ever-night like the sun above them could not.

It was so very empty around them, he thought. Loki imagined that he could feel the winter running up and down his spine, he imagined that he could feel it settle next to his bones. He inhaled, and felt his lungs fill with the bite of cold like an embrace. He never had liked summer, he thought distantly. And yet . . .

"It's cold . . . too cold," Volstagg muttered from ahead of him. "The frost shall make our steel stick."

"It's making something else stick, as well," Fandral bemoaned. "I'm beginning to doubt that even sweet Hilga's arms shall be able to warm me upon our return."

From ahead of them, Thor held up a hand. Silence instantly fell upon their group in reply. Fandral rubbed his hands about his arms as if to give to them warmth, his breath a puff of vapor on the air as he sighed in frustration. Hogun raised a brow at his friend as he passed, while Volstagg patted him on the back, rubbing vigorously for warmth to bloom. Fandral stumbled forward at the strongman's form of comfort, nearly slipping before he caught his stride. Volstagg chuckled.

"Alas, my friend, but not all of us have your . . . insulation to warm us," Fandral complained petulantly, but he picked up his stride nonetheless.

Loki watched from the side, but made no comment where none would be welcome. Steadily, he walked on.

To his left, the shield-maiden was as quiet as he. Her silence was an oddity for Sif, who would normally be quick to join in the jest and the japes. When he looked to his right, thinking to steal a glance, he found that she was already staring at him. She never did try to hide her looks, not like he, and she wore the question in her eyes like a challenge, plain for him to see. She already had her glaive drawn in deference to the cold. The winter-blue shadows danced over her shield; turning her pale skin a shade of ice, the grey of her eyes a color of cold.

He swallowed, and felt the skin about his throat stretch.

(She had been cross with him before their departure; pushing him against the wall of the stables, her fist settling like a warning about his throat. "You," she said simply. She had not asked him if he had opened the ways to allow the intruders into Asgard. She did not insult his intelligence or her own. _She knew_, her fingers said as they tightened, finding the soft points of his skin and _pressing._ He did not think to break her hold so much as he held his breath against the touch. He swallowed, and felt the shape of her thumb. He felt the callous there as it caught against his flesh.

_I had to make him see,_ he thought, but did not say. _I could not swear fealty to such a King, such a pride, and neither could you. So why do you look at me so? _She had released him when the guards announced that the horses were ready, and had not looked back.)

"You are not cold," she commented. Her eyes flickered over him, pausing on the thin layers of his leather, the summer-soles of his boots. His hands were bare to the cold so as to better feel for his knives, so as to better summon his spells. He rolled up his sleeves, allowing a long expanse of pale flesh to show. His breath frosted, but his skin did not stand on end from the cold.

"No, I am not," he answered. A heartbeat passed, and then two as they came within the shadow of Utgard's palace. Or, what would have passed as such in days bygone. "Are you?" he returned her words, the syllables not quite unkind.

Sif raised a brow in return, but did not reply. When she strode forward to walk at Thor's side, no one questioned her place, and Loki refused to quicken his stride to follow. He simply counted his steps and ignored the winter as it bit bone deep.

.

.

Of course, things went about as well as one could expect with Thor thirsty for war and with so little thought for _repercussions_ and _next _within him. Loki's brief attempt at diplomacy (_know your place, brother_, but how those words had _burned_ unlike any flame) had failed spectacularly, made all for naught over one stupid, infantile insult.

And now, here they were, with Ivaldi forged steel waging war against brute strength and frost strewn knuckles. Five took up arms against the might of Utgard; Thor reveling in his battle-lust as the Three grimly rose to answer the call of their prince. Sif's look was resigned as she stepped towards to the battle - she, who normally wore the fight marching in her veins, dispatched her foes with a mechanical ease, her every word turned to Thor between blows. "We must go," she hissed, but Thor listened to her as well as he had to his brother.

_He shall get us all killed one day_, Loki thought darkly as he flicked his fingers, ending the spell he had just used to fell the beast closest to him as he called his doubles back to himself. It was an old dance to him, of spinning and casting and letting steel find its bite deep within enemy skin. While he did not feel the same rush as Thor with the foes he killed, there was still a dark feeling bubbling within his bones for the success of the battle, for staying alive where another was not. But there was no pride to be had in this fight. No purpose. Just a mindless killing to slake the need for vengeance in Thor's bloated head.

_A need for vengeance which you inspired_, an unkind voice reminded him. The voice was annoyingly shaped like truth. _The blood spilled today is on your hands_.

He dug his blade into the next giant, and twisted with a force normally foreign to him. Rage bristled at his skin - for himself, for Thor, for Sif and her raised brow at the violence he had displayed. In an irrational moment he wanted to claw her eyes from her face when she did not turn her gaze from him. He wanted to force her to look anywhere else but at him. Wasn't Thor brilliant and golden at the battle's head, even beneath the wasteland's shadows? Better that she watch his brother than . . .

His chest heaved. His veins _crawled_. And just as he was about to call his sieðr to him, to draw upon the power of the Mother and turn skin to parchment and bones to_ ash_ before him -

- his spell had missed its target. His rage had blinded him, and almost instantly he had another of the Jötnar stepping forth to fill the place of the one he would have felled. A massive fist closed over his forearm, and an instinctive panic told him to draw his arm away. He mustn't let them touch him, he thought wildly. For the frost held a black touch in the use of its children, and he . . .

. . . he felt not of the wasteland's hold as it touched him. He felt naught of his skin shriveling and blacking. He felt nothing of the winter's burn. Instead he felt a sick sort of surprise rising up in him, a poisonous breath drawn from his lungs to fill every pore, reflected in the eyes of the Jötunn opposite of him as his skin turned blue and flushed against the winter like a _welcome_. "You," the giant rumbled as the color of his skin deepened to match that of the hand which still held him. Foreign markings swirling across his knuckles, snaking up his forearm, telling an elaborate tale he was ignorant to. "Brother, but you are . . ."

But the giant's words were taken from him. "Loki!" he heard the cry from behind the monster, and then the tip of Sif's blade appeared through the great barrel of a chest before him.

The Jötunn blinked once, then twice. His eyes were more surprised than pained as the bright ember of his gaze flashed and then dimmed. A dark liquid seeped from his mouth like sap from a pine. _Blood_, and Loki watched in horrified fascination as the beast fell before him, the life flickering and then going dim in the red of his eyes. Deep inside, he felt something constrict at the sight. The part of him that was instinct rather than thought twisted, as if dealt a blow, and he . . .

_Had she seen?_ He thought wildly, pulling the ruins of his sleeve down over his skin, even as the flesh returned to the pale cream of the Aesir. _Did she know?_

_Know what?_ He thought next. _What did it mean?_ He only knew that his heart was moving too quick in his chest, and his thoughts were spinning in his mind. He had . . .

But any further thought was cut off by the scream of rage and pain that cut through the melee around them. All stopped as the Jötunn king stepped down from his throne, walking with quick, massive strides through the body-strewn field to where the giant Sif had felled twitched with his last moments. The king wore a tender look about his face as he dropped to his knees, his blood red eyes softening until Loki felt as if he should look away as if from a private moment.

"Helblindi," Laufey rumbled, his voice shaped like grief. "My son."

Opposite of the grieving monarch, Sif took a step back, only realizing too late the foe she had smote. Her fingers were white upon the strap of her shield, grim for the repercussions to come, even as Thor looked on in dark satisfaction.

Suddenly, the winter around him was almost tangible enough to touch. He could feel the cold like an embrace, he could feel the planet down to its core beneath his feet. The ice pulsed, but it was a tired beat, an old beat; as if drawn through lungs trying to breathe without a heart to grant them strength . . . He could feel the king's grief as the sky darkened overhead, as the air turned sharp with the threat of snow. Laufey was connected to his land much as Odin was to Asgard and Yggdrasil herself, and now the land reacted. The land _answered_.

When he looked up, Laufey's crimson eyes were dark. Black ice appeared around his hands as he gently laid his dead son down and advanced upon the shield-maiden.

Sif held her shield high, and dared him to come closer.

And then, many things happened at once. With an unintelligible sound of rage, Laufey swept his hand, and the black ice leapt for Sif like something living. With a shout of her own, she held her shield high against the onslaught, her feet braced against the ice to anchor herself as if she had roots. All sprang forward to give their aid, even Loki who thought _for me, she slayed the winter-prince for me_, but they were all flung back by the roar of the byway in the air. Help had come from Asgard, in the form of Odin himself, and all were pushed back from the battle as the Allfather stepped from the bridge of the heavens to confront his old enemy.

Loki fought for purchase on the ice against the blast, digging his knuckles into the ground and keeping his place. The force of the bifröst had pushed Sif back into him, and he caught her when her bones proved to be useless in her limbs. Where normally she was such a strength, she was now as something liquid in his arms, and when he touched the bare skin of her hand he felt . . .

_Ice_, he thought with a grimace. And not the frostbite that had touched Volstagg earlier, this was something different. Something more. At the touch, the core of him recoiled from the black nature of the spell used to enchant the element. Her veins swam with something dark and soulless. His senses, heightened from Helbindi's damning touch (and he could not think about that now, he _could not_), sang a black song of the darkest part of the ice. The blackest of curses, an infection that ate and _consumed_ as the wasteland itself consumed, and . . .

When Sif's eyes rolled back to look at him, they were filled with pain. She, who had once been skewered through by the tusks of a wild boar without flinching; she, who had known broken bones and severed skin and every ache and agony of war, looked at him with pain and _fear_ in her eyes. At the look, something inside Loki broke.

Odin and Laufey were trading harsh words aplenty, Thor as well, but Loki did not care. He knew only that they had to get away in that moment. They had to get _home_, where the air was warm and steel reflected flame rather than ice, and -

"Father," he interrupted, his voice quick and anxious to his own ears. "The lady, she . . ."

His words broke off. He did not have a shape for them. His tongue knew not how to form his thoughts, as if he were a mewing babe fresh from his mother's womb. Sif's hands were pale and white at the knuckles as she clung to him, as she struggled to rise.

Laufey laughed at the fear in his voice. "A life for a life," the winter-king muttered, and something like understanding lit in Odin's eye, for a moment later the byway was roaring, and there was nothing but the howl of the cosmos and the sweet feeling of his bones being pulled through the stars as he held Sif tight against the onslaught of the great ways around them.

_Hold on_, he thought as he held her even closer still, hating how she clung to him. _Please, just hold on_ . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

By the time they reached Asgard, the black ice on Sif's hand had spread to cover most of the left side of her body. Her arm was completely useless when she tried to move it, hanging limply around Loki's shoulders as the bifröst deposited them back in Heimdall's chamber. Her fingers were cold from where they curled against the back of his neck, drawing a shiver from him as all of the cold of Utgard had failed to do. Where it was visable, her skin was the jeweled, crackling texture of broken ice. His skin crawled upon seeing it.

"The Healer has been allerted. Eir awaits you," Heimdall said as soon as the roar of the chamber abated, not blinking as he looked down at his sister's still form. But there was a tight set to his shoulders as he bowed to his King and sons. He had seen, Loki knew, and he was not unaffected. Thor would not meet the Gatekeeper's gaze.

His observations were cut short, though, when Volstagg stepped forward to take Sif from his arms. As the strongest of their group, the choice was logical, and yet a part of Loki wanted to bare his teeth and protest her being taken from him. His arms felt empty with the loss of her weight. The cold that had descended upon his skin in Jötunnheimr's wake seemed to settle bone deep without her warmth to block it.

Though Loki could feel the fury rolling off of his father in molten waves, Odin did not give voice to the thoughts so clearly waiting on his tongue. His movements were stiff as he threw back to Heimdall the sword of the byway. Loki fought the sudden urge he had to creep past his sire, as if he were a child all over again - a small thing made even smaller by the shadow of Odin's war helm. He looked ahead to where Volstagg carried Sif and felt a new worry bite high in his gut, one that he had not the words to identitfy.

"Father, please," Thor tried to speak on a low whisper, but Odin held up a hand.

"We shall have this discussion at a later time," the Allfather's words fell as a blow, slashing through the air. In reply, Thor flinched as if struck. "When we accertain just what foul curse the shield-maiden is struck with we shall discuss your actions this day. Now is not the time."

"Yes, father," when Thor spoke his voice was small and meek, as if he felt every inch the child that Loki did.

Before – even a scarce hour before – Loki would have felt a dark satisfaction at seeing the other humbled so. Now, there were simply greater things on his mind as he quickened his stride, hating that he simply could not disappear with one step and step out of the shadows of the Healer's chambers with the next. His fingers made a restless rhythm as they tapped at his sides. Their trip back to the palace was not a long one, but he felt every moment of it nonetheless.

By the time they made it to Eir's hall, Loki could taste the unease within him as something acrid against his tongue. Sif had yet to stir in Volstagg's arms, but when the giant set her down on the bed that Eir had ready, her eyes fluttered weakly. When she exhaled, her breath frosted on the air.

"My arm," she tried to tell the healer, but Eir shushed her, leaning forward to help her from her long cloak so that she did not have to remove it herself. "My whole side," Sif tried to say, but her words came out faint, nearly indistinguishable as sound. "It burns . . . a cold burn."

"Shh, child, let me see," Eir soothed. They managed to get Sif out of her cloak, but the lacing and fastenings of her armor took longer to remove. Sif winced, and tried to sit up to help, but even the smallest of motions seemed to cost her a great deal of energy. Loki stood still by Thor's side, fighting the urge he had to step forward and help, to let his fingers trace and linger and sooth by their own . . .

. . . instead, he fisted his hands, and remained silent.

When they finally rolled back the sleeves of her tunic, all drew in a sharp breath. The skin they could glimpse on her hands traveled up her arm, over her shoulder, to disappear underneath her tunic and appear again on her neck, stopping just before the soft skin beneath her jaw. Her flesh was black and crackled, pulsing with the wastelands's cold. Loki could smell the ruined flesh, and for a moment he wondered if it was his own senses that spoke so, and not the awakening of ice in his veins . . .

He blinked, forcing himself to listen as Eir made her way around Sif's body. The Healer chanted and spoke her charms, reading her spells as her apprentices prepared potions. By the time she turned to them, a diagnosis in her eyes, Sif's head had lolled back against the pillow of the bed. Her eyes were closed, clenched tight as she lost the battle against consciousness. Loki looked and saw the black shade of her eyelashes, how they were dark against the white of her skin. Something inside of him turned tight at the sight, like the string of a bow.

"I have seen more warriors than I care to think of fall from this curse throughout my centuries," Eir said, and when she spoke her voice was sad. "I had not thought to see it again with the Great War so ended. But now . . ."

"How will she fare, Healer?" Thor interupted, having not the patience for memories of old. "Please, tell us."

When Eir turned to them, her eyes were weary. Weary and old. Immediately, Loki knew the answer, even before the Healer gave it. His skin felt thin over his bones in reply, as if he were not quite real in that moment. It had to be another Loki who stood here, he thought even as he inhaled and found his breath. As he breathed . . . _breathed_, as Sif would no longer breathe once the curse took her whole. He could not wholly form the thought in his mind. He could not make sense of it.

"Send for the child's mother," Eir said gently. "Gná should be here for the end. Give your prayers - her soul is in Hel's hands now, and all I can do is slow the process and make her comfortable."

In the wake of her words, all were silent. The Three looked between themselves, grim Hogun clenching his fists as Fandral paced a small circle with his agitation. Volstagg openly wore his grief on his face as he stepped forward to lay one massive palm over Sif's ruined hand, his gentle eyes red with tears. They mourned her already, Loki realized. It was as if she had already passed from them, and they merely waited for her last breath to sing her soul to the worlds beyond. Loki clenched his jaw, for it could not be so . . . it _would not_ be so.

_How could this day have gone so very wrong?_ he wondered, the thought like a wound at his mind.

Odin's mouth formed a stern line, but the look of his eye was weary. Too weary, Loki thought. For he had not slept in so long . . .

"Is there anything else you can do?" he asked, but his words were empty. He too had accepted defeat.

"I shall search my scrolls," Eir said. "But this curse took every victim struck by it during the War's time. I never once conquered it."

"Then look again, if you would please," Odin said. "As always, Asgard is in your debt, Master-healer."

"And always shall I serve, Allfather," Eir bowed her head, already looking beyond them as she turned back to her patient.

Loki stepped forward as Eir turned, to what end he knew not. He only knew that Sif was small and taken by the winter as Eir's apprentices settled her in, and he . . . He what? He wished to sooth her? He wished to take her hand and make her pains his own? The idea was as laughable as it was pathetic, and she would welcome them not.

Loki swallowed, and turned when Odin turned. Mechanically, he fell in step behind his father and brother. After all . . . every action had repercussions, and the events of that day had touched more than Sif.

They reached the corridor beyond Eir's hall when Thor drew up to Odin's side, not willing to wait before pressing the discussion that all could feel building. Thor's face was solemn and drawn, the warm cast of his skin a pale shade of grey-white, even in the orange light. He looked as something half-alive, his bright eyes sunken beneath his brow like bruises and the wide line of his mouth pressed thin. Loki looked, and found that he did not like the sight of his brother broken and penitent before him. He swallowed against the sharp taste in his mouth.

Odin stopped as Thor did, and at a sharp look from his eyes, the Three wisely moved on. Loki tensed, counting down heartbeats in his mind for the inevitable, when -

"You foolish, stupid boy," Odin said lowly before Thor could say a word. "Do you realize what it is you have done?"

Loki could feel the rise of his power on the air. The Allfather knew anger, and the air fairly crackled at the restrained might of his rage. He could feel the whiplash of his flaring temper like claws against the skin of his spine. His senses crackled with a warning, the part of his mind that was instinct over thought fairly bristling with the urge he had to flee. In his heart, his seiðr trembled, his connection to the Mother feeling Odin's connection . . . how the Yggdrasil herself knew an anger of her own for anyone who moved the King of her high brow to such a feeling. Loki made fists, knowing that his eyes were very green in that moment.

"Father, let me explain," Thor started on a broken voice.

But Odin would not listen. He cut his son off with a savage swipe of his hand through the air. "You have disobeyed the express command of your king," he began, his voice ringing out with an absolute judgment. "You have put your own life at risk, your _brother's_ life at risk, as well as the lives of your friends. And from that risk, one now pays the price of your foolishness in blood. And yet, worse than that is the thoughtless way you have put the people you would have sworn not even hours ago to lead at risk. You have opened up the innocent of these lands to the horrors and untamed bloodshed of _war._ The worse part, my son, is that you do not even understand the enormity of your error."

"Father," Thor tried again, but Odin would hear none of it.

"You play at battle," Odin continued, his voice scathing, "but what have you truly done in your time? Have you slain a dragon or two? Taken a moon back from Dark Elves? Skirmished with dwarves and slain giants of fire? You have set your feet on quests aplenty to put other foolish decisions to the right, but you still are ignorant to the true horror of a Great War – a war so encompassing that it swallows entire _realms _in its insatiable maw. You do not know this because much blood was spilled in times gone by to keep that so. But that is not enough for you. You have to seek out what you would call _glory_. What you would call the makings of a _hero_. But you are no more than a bully, unable to see when you tease a foe you should not strike."

For a moment, the blue of Thor's eyes burned as hot as storm light, but he did not try to fight their father's words as once he would have. Instead of trying to interupt, he bowed his head in shame. The strong line of his jaw shook with a great and heavy grief. Loki looked, and saw that Thor took each and every word as the blow they were ment to be. He listened.

"You have taken a son from a father. I can imagine no greater theft," Odin finished on a low voice. "And for that folly, the shield-maiden will pay with her life."

"Father," Thor entreated, but there was no fight in his voice when he spoke. Only a plea. "Please, treat with Laufey. Explain to him that the fight was mine and mine alone. Get him to end his curse, even if it means that I shall take Sif's place as it's victim. I will pay the blood price for Helblindi's soul, but please, do not let her die for my mistakes."

Odin's look was long and hard as he leveled it at his firstborn. Loki had never known that an eye could hold such a look.

"For your actions, Týr's daughter will die," Odin said, his voice cutting and final – not for Sif's sake, but for Thor's. "Do not dishonor her sacrifice by suggesting that the one she is sworn to protect take her place. She will thank you no more than I. This Realm shall need a heir, especially if Laufey is moved to war for Helblindi's death."

At the end of his words, Odin looked to Loki, and Loki worked his jaw against the urge he had to speak – to question. But in the end, no sound came out. He knew not of what to say. For a moment, Odin looked sad, the weight of his decisions and long years weighing upon him like a mountain upon the earth beneath it.

Thor stepped forward, but Odin gestured again – wearily this time. "I wish not to hear what you have to say," Odin said. The softness of his voice was more cutting than any rage he could have summoned. "You have disappointed me this day, and I am shamed to call you of my blood." He took in a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching before he exhaled. "Now leave me."

Loki watched as Thor opened and closed his mouth, but he was silent as he was bid. He bowed his head as Odin passed on from them, his stride slow and burdened as he made his way down the hall. In his wake, Thor stood as still as stone, the fluttering of his lashes and the massive rise and fall of his chest the only thing telling him as one living.

Loki clenched his fists, wanting oddly to comfort in that moment, to make right . . . But his words were far from him, and so, with a last glance at Thor, he turned from his brother and walked back into Eir's Hall, resigned to wait out the end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **So, _The Dark World_ was amazing (even if a little hard to watch in places as a Sif/Loki shipper. I still took moments away though, because that is what this pairing is based on. ;)). I didn't know if I wanted more to hug Loki or punch him - which means it was perfect. I am still simmering in my _feelings_. :p

* * *

**Part III**

They had been in Eir's hall for only minutes before they were shooed away for the Healer to more fully examine her patient. Eir's apprentices held a white gown for Sif, and out of respect for their comrade's modesty, both turned to the hall beyond once again. Unwilling to leave, they sat down on one of the ornate benches that lined the way. The light from the wide torches threw the wide planes of Thor's face in stark shapes of light and dark as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands. The great line of his shoulders was bowed, the light of his eyes was dim.

Thor looked . . . small, Loki thought uncomfortably. As small as a storm who gave relinquished its hold of the sky to the sun.

"I have killed her." When Thor spoke, the words were numb from his mouth, harsh upon the silence.

"The lady is strong," Loki said in reply before even thinking about his words. His voice sounded forced to his own ears. "She may yet live."

Thor snorted - a dark, doubting sound that was foreign on his lips. Loki blinked at it, the sound shaking him from his apathy.

"You heard the healer," Thor said. "If Eir is made to worry . . ."

" . . . then your mouth may be better suited for prayer than for such defeatist's words," Loki said, sharper than he intended.

Thor shut his mouth with an audible click. Loki shifted in his place, uncomfortable with the thought that he may have said too much - shown too much, but Thor was in no place to notice a distress other than his own. He sighed, running a massive hand through his hair.

"This never would have happened had I not insisted that we travel to Utgard," Thor whispered. "She would yet live, and the realm would be secure from the threat of war to come. I . . . how could I have been so foolish? How could I have been so very blind?"

Loki swallowed at the words, though Thor did not see, his gaze looking down at it was. If he himself had not acted on petty jealousy and long simmering discontentment . . . if he had not opened the ways, indulging in a petty spat of mischief to ruin his brother's day . . . if he had only . . .

"You tried to tell me otherwise," Thor continued in a small voice. In a moment of molten feeling, Loki hated the childlike tone his brother had taken. He wanted to claw it from his lips, dig in deep and scour it from his throat. He had wanted to break his brother, he admitted in a dark moment. He had wanted to see him small and helpless underneath the weight of his incompetence, making it clear for all to see how very _not ready_ he was for the honor of their father's name, but now . . . Now Thor was all but destroyed before him, and Loki hated the dim sight of his eyes. This was not Thor; Thor, who was all the strength of winds and the sound of thunder . . .

Thor did not whisper, he thought. Thor did not bow his head and _cave_.

But now he did; and his grief was Loki's fault as much as his own, and he . . .

"I am not worthy of our father's name," Thor said next. His words were spoken without feeling, as if he were an outsider looking in on the events of the day. "Perhaps it was for the best that it was seen now before I actually took the crown. Before I took our father's throne . . ."

If Thor was not worthy, then what did that make him? Loki thought, and for a moment he _hated_ the shape of the answer in his mind. Loki felt a warm touch against his thoughts, and he could imagine Sif tilting his chin up, asking him how worth was truly defined - whispering that worth was judged against what one's self was capable of, not the accomplishment of others, and he felt a wave of nausea stronger than his hate. Stronger than his regret.

His hands were cold. He made them fists in his lap.

"How could I ever be ready for this?" Thor asked. He looked down as if he could find the answers in his folded hands. They were strong hands, a warriors hands. They had spilled the blood of countless foes, had callused and cracked and bruised and served him as well as they could. But hands were only strength, and Loki could now see where his thoughts swam as a tempest. Thor looked truly lost in that moment, and Loki . . .

He looked down at his own hands, seeing them pale and winter white. He made a fist, the colour now seeming so very wrong upon his skin . . .

"Brother?" Thor whispered, and Loki tried his best not to flinch at the name. _Was he?_ He wondered. _Was he truly?_ "Something ails you," Thor stated. "Something past the obvious. What is it?"

A day ago, Thor would never have noticed, Loki thought. He tried to shape the thought unkindly, but in the end he was too weary for even that.

"It is . . . it is nothing," Loki said. The lie sounded weak to his own ears.

Thor nodded his head slowly, looking at him as if he could find the answer to his question written on his pupils. Loki fought the urge to fidget, to draw away. Would Thor see his eyes shadowed red? Would Thor see his skin winter stained?

The thought caused his stomach to roll sickly beneath his skin. The room seemed to swim drunkenly around him until the blue of Thor's eyes was indistictable from the navy of his armor, and Loki . . .

He knew only that he was rising a moment later; breaking the other's gaze and giving into the animal-like urge he had to get away. To flee. All the while, his feet followed the tugging on his bones, the chill he could feel in his spine . . . For he was not the only piece of stolen winter to reside in Asgard's halls, and now a voice rang in his ears, impossible for him to turn aside.

_My son_, the voice whispered. _My son, my son, my son, my son . . ._

And Loki followed.  
.

.

The ways of the palace not meant for feet to trod were long his for the walking.

It was without thinking that he made his way down the ancient halls, past the wards older than himself, with a flick of his hand and little conscious thought. He kept to the shadows, closing his eyes in one place and then opening in the next.

The Vault around him was kissed by frost. He wondered how he had not been able to feel it before. When he walked forward, the heart of the winter called to him, pulsing with each step he took; begging to be touched, begging to be held. It wished to be home. It was beating free of a body here in Asgard's depths, and how it _cried_ its song of ice and cold to the air. Loki listened, and could hear as it wailed and bemoaned her fallen sons, her lost world. In the Casket's song, he could even feel the echo of a discordant beat from above – Sif suffering from the wasteland's curse, and he . . .

He simply stood in the shadows, listening as it sang.

He could not, he still protested dumbly. He would not . . .

But like a sailor willing to drown by a siren's sweet song, he walked forward. He ran a hesitant finger over the Casket of Ancient Winters at the first, drawing it over the sides and lid as he traced the once meaningless symbols with a new understanding. The dancing snows within felt him, they answered him . . .

And dumbly, Loki watched as his pale skin flushed a shade of Jötunn blue. The color crawled up his fingers to dance over his wrist and disappear beneath his sleeve to reappear at his neck, swallowing his throat until his eyes shone as embers in the ice, and he _knew_ . . .

There was a silent step behind him. A soft step. But not even the General of Generals was silent enough to escape his notice when a son of Jötunnheimr held his people's lifesblood in his hands.

"What am I?" Loki asked without looking back. The longer he held the Casket, the more he could feel the bite of cold in the air. Soon, the chill felt as an embrace. Markings followed the blue on his skin, cutting across his limbs to dust his knuckles and bisect his face. Spots for a poisonous animal he thought, proclaiming him _monster_ and _deadly_ and _do not touch _. . .

"You are my son," Odin said simply, and the shock inside of him – the outrage and pain and hurt – all mingled together to form a black smear of hate for the soft strength of his words.

_Liar_, he wanted to hiss. As much a silver-tongue as he was Odin, and Loki had not the stomach for it.

"What more than that?" When he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous whisper. His words slithered as he let the Casket go. As soon as he did so, his hands felt empty. He felt too warm as he turned to face his not-father. He felt small without the Casket's might; empty even, and that, over all else had something warm and sharp gathering behind his eyes, cutting through the lump at the back of his throat.

"You took more than just the Casket, that day," Loki prompted when Odin remained silent, each word flung like a stone. "You took more from the ice than just a memento of war, you took something – rather, _someone_ else. Tell me who it was that you took," the last word lost its edge of menace. It came out as a plea. It was a child who spoke so; a child unsure of its place by its parent's side.

His heart was too fast in his chest, desperate almost, and Loki felt that desperation claw out of his throat like madness. "Tell me!" he cried, the sound ripped from his throat like the greatest of agonies, the greatest of pains. He did not recognize his own voice, he thought dumbly. It was not _Loki_ who spoke so. It could not have been.

Then again . . . who really was Loki? He wondered. Who was he to define himself one way and not another when everything was now so _different_?

The entreaty struck something in Odin, Loki saw. His father, stern and untouchable, slow to anger and even slower to acts of open affection, looked at him as if were approaching a wounded animal. There was pity in Odin's gaze . . . pity and something more than that, but Loki did not see the later. He only saw the hesitation.

His hands curled as if they were claws, and oh, but how he _wanted_ to tear into flesh and bone in that moment. The night-stories said that the Jötnar feasted on the still beating hearts of their victims. If it was true, the Allfather's blood would be sweet, and he would enjoy it. Every fire-side tale said so . . .

. . . so why could he not raise his hand in violence? His own heart ached in his chest at merely the thought. How could a monster feel so, he wondered? It did not add up, he thought brokenly. It did not make _sense_.

"You were just a babe," Odin finally said, his voice small and soft – lost in memory. Loki forced his hands to his sides. He made them fists. "You were small, for a giant's offspring, let alone the son of their King. I remember how your hand barely fit around my finger . . . We had taken the temple on that final day, and there were none left living within. None but for you, crying and alone – abandoned. Much blood had been spilled that day, and where I could pay for the lives that had been lost, I took you in as my own."

"No," Loki cut a hand through the air. "There is more than that. You would not take in such a child on a whim."

Odin looked at him long and hard, as if wondering if he were ready for the weight of his words. Loki tilted his head up and let him look – challenging his not-father to find him too weak for the truth, for the _entirety_ of the tale. "There was once a prophesy," Odin said. "You have heard of it, of a son of the ice bringing about the Twilight of our race. I sought to prevent that prophesy, to raise you to love the realm I serve, to raise you to rise above the fate scripted for you."

It was worse then, Loki thought with a pang. So much worse. "Then that is why you have always looked at me with fear in your eyes." Loki said softly. "That is why you have always favoured Thor . . . why I have always been _second_ in your regard. I am nothing more than a carefully guarded weapon. Another relic locked up until you have use of me . . . "

"You see slights where there are none," and finally Odin spoke swiftly, his words cutting. "Though my sense has bid caution in my regard for you over the years, the heart listens not – and you are my son as much as Thor is. It matters not that another sired you, that a womb other than Frigg's bore you. You are _my_ son. Your first words were mine. Your first steps were mine. Your love has been mine, even when you have doubted it not to be so."

Loki flinched at the word. _Love._ His knees felt weak. They would not hold him up much longer, he knew. "You have never loved me," he returned. Where he meant for his words to be bold and battle-strong, they came out small and broken. His voice shook, though he fiercely told himself that he would not cry. He _would not_ show such a weakness to the man who was not his father. Only his thief. Only his jailor. He tried to call on his hate, but it was fast failing him. "You have never cared for me, not truly. And why should you? You have Thor who is golden and perfect and strong; and you have me – Jötunn blooded, with spells over steel in my hand. You stole me so as to prevent the death of your people. You cannot love me . . . you must not - " and finally his words broke. His last syllable was a sob, wrenched from his throat.

And Odin stepped forward in alarm. He did not touch him, not when Loki recoiled so violently from the possibility of it. But he did not draw away.

"You are my son," Odin said, the words battle-strong. "What you view as a lie told in cruelty was only a truth kept to spare you the pain you now feel. You are _my_ son; mine own, as much as Thor is."

_More lies_, Loki thought. _Lies, lies, lies_ – always and ever _lies_. His hands shook. He could not keep them still. He tried to swallow, but his throat burned around the motion.

"I know that you were the one to open the ways," Odin said next, and Loki's head shot up. "You thought yourself to walk in secret upon the Mother's branches, but there are others who have walked her paths far longer than you. It is quite a skill to have, an unparalleled one, at that. But you are more than this petty mischief – this simple hate."

"I wanted you to see," Loki did not bother denying his words. "I wanted you to see that Thor was not ready." _That I was waiting, quiet and ready where you would not look_, he thought, but did not say. He _could not_ say. "But Jötunnheimr was not what I intended. Thor was not supposed to retaliate, Sif was not supposed to . . ." Dear gods, but _Sif_. With his heart already open and raw, there was no way for him to keep down the disinterest he normally feigned. Strong Sif, _brilliant_ Sif, small and dying above . . . he could not comprehend it in that moment. How could she fall and he still stand?

"It was for my sake," he finally said softly. "Helblindi broke through the wards on my skin, and I saw Jötunn blue. He called me _brother_, and Sif ran him through, thinking that he did me harm. She saved me, and bore Laufey's rage in return."

_It is because of me she suffers_, Loki thought. If it hadn't been for his jealousy, his hate, his petty differences . . .

He could not breathe then. He gulped in a breath, but it was not enough. This time when Odin stepped forward, grasping each of his arms in a tight grip, he did not fight him. _He looked so very weary_, a part of Loki thought. _When was it last he slept in the Kings-sleep?_ Odin drew him into an embrace, such as he had not since he was a very small child, and Loki stiffened against the touch.

_No, no, no_, he stubbornly refused to believe. _He does not . . . I can not _. . .

"It has not been easy for you, but Loki, you must truly believe your worth more than you would think it."

But he _did not_, he _could not_. He was trembling, looking about as a wounded animal longing to escape, but Odin held his arms tight. He could not move. Loki felt as a child again, but not _their_ child. Never _his_ son. Only a stolen enemy. A blade kept in the dark. A _monster_, nightmare shaped, and -

He could feel the familiar rising of rage, and this time he did not try to cut it down. He let it fill him, he let it consume him. World-slayer and Kin-ender, prophesy called him. Well then, he would be so sorry to disappoint, and -

His thoughts were cut by the guards from outside calling frantically.

"My lords," the guard wore his worry in his tone. "Eir Master-healer sends for you. She needs your aid. The shield-maiden -"

And just like that, his hate rushed back into the dam he normally kept it under. He blinked, stepping back from his not-father as the words struck in deep. "Sif," he said weakly, and Odin looked at him as if ascertaining whether or not it was safe for him to journey beyond the Vault with the secrets he had just revealed.

But Sif was in need, and Sif was dying, and Loki could wait, just a little while longer. He felt numb inside, he told himself. He _did not care_, he told himself, but he was not great enough a liar, even for even that.

"Come, my son," Odin gestured him forward, and Loki was too tired to even flinch at the endearment from the other man's mouth.

_Liar, liar, liar_, he thought. _Like father, like son_, he thought next, but the thought was an unkind one, lined with teeth.

_Liar_, he breathed, and let the thought escape his lungs like poison as he turned to follow.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

When they reached the Healer's Hall, Sif was thrashing in her bed. The limbs of her body struck and made blows against the wet lines of her sheets. Her fingers clawed, her mouth opened in a silent scream, though no sound was to be heard.

In just the short time they had been away, the black ice of the curse had spread to cover the right side of her body, as well. Her throat and face were free of the frost's touch, but it was a small victory, one garnered from Eir's frantic attempts to keep the spell from spreading.

"It seeps in from her skin to enter her blood," Eir said. "I cannot let it reach her heart, but for that I need to borrow of your strength, Allfather," she did not look at Odin as she spoke, for this was her realm here, and even Odin answered where she reigned as absolute. "I cannot hold the wards on my own, not against this."

"I will do what I can, Healer," Odin said, but Loki was not blind to the look that passed between the Healer and the King. Long had it been since his last sleep, and Odin's power was not what it could be.

Loki swallowed down what felt like panic as Sif thrashed and moaned, still asleep as she fought her body's rebellion. The sounds were those of a frightened animal, low and plaintive – such as he never could imagine passing from the shield-maiden's lips before they were actually uttered. His heart beat faster upon hearing so.

"Here," he stepped forward. "If Odin would not mind, I would lend my strength as well."

Eir blinked, before nodding her head sharply. "It may work," she said. Many centuries ago he had learned what he could of her Art when his powers were just escaping his skin and he needed any outlet for the forces that were suddenly past his control – even if the outlet was as a healer's energy. Over the years, Eir had kept an interest in the progression of his enchantments, and she knew his strengths well.

"Here," Eir gestured, placing one hand on the right side of Sif's brow, and the other over her heart. She gestured for Loki to do the same on the left. "Like this."

He could feel as her powers lined the air – golden and warm and maternal with a healer's song. Loki's magicks were different; green and bright like spring, but he thought only _growth_ and _might _as he let his power's merge with the healer to aid Sif with her fight.

Immediately, he could feel the wastelands' taint in her body. It was a black and coursing thing, cold enough to chill to the very bone. It was a spell that tore and consumed, and he could _feel _the evil lines of it as it hissed against the healer's touch.

It hissed against the healer's touch, but against his . .

The ice drew back, as if curious. It turned dormant for but a moment, as if waiting for a command. Loki paused at the sensation, an uneasy idea forming in his mind as he stretched out with his senses. For the ice recognized him, the ice was waiting to respond to him . . . he needed only to give it a command.

_Retreat_, he tried to force the ice into doing his will. _Leave her_.

The ice shivered, but did not break. It shifted, leaving her veins to sluggishly rise back to her skin. It was a small retreat, but only that - but it would not dissipate entirely. He was not strong enough for that, he thought. Or, he simply did not know the right words of power to say. This was new to him, the Jötnar's magic, and he was like a novice dabbling at things past his control . . .

But he had bought Sif more time, he thought as he exited the trance alongside Eir's consciousness. He had stayed the course of the curse, for whatever that delay was worth.

When he blinked, it was to the sight of Eir's concerned eyes. She looked from him to Odin and then back again, and in that look he knew of her knowing. _She knew_.

An uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut, but he had no time to sort it through when Sif blinked. Her eyes were glazed and dull, as cold as the ice in her veins, but she had consciousness for but a moment before succumbing to the curse's black hold and falling away from him again.

"It has left her blood," Eir said, her voice weary. "But it is only a matter of time before it returns. Once it reaches her heart . . ." The healer did not have to say. He knew. They all knew.

But Odin was looking on him with a thoughtful gaze, as if he had unwound a riddle beyond Loki's ability to understand. He rubbed at his white beard, considering, before inclining his head.

"We thank you, healer," he said, though his voice was distant. "For all that you are able to do."

Eir sighed, reaching down to touch Sif's hands once in a maternal gesture before turning – no doubt to seek her scrolls again. Loki felt her leave more than he watched her, for he was still standing close to Sif's bedside, the tips of her fingers cold from the touch of her skin. He looked up, feeling eyes upon him, and saw Odin looking at him, the intensity of his single eyed gaze enough to make him wish to look away.

Finally, Loki looked away. He settled down at Sif's side, and did not look up again as the Allfather walked away.

.

.

He didn't know what to do afterward.

He did not wish to return to his rooms – which no longer felt like his rooms, he thought. They were as a strangers rooms to him now. He wanted to seek none of the common places, where those who thought they knew him would greet him with raised brows and whispers and stares. And he certainly did not wish to follow Thor, who went to seek their parents – _his_ parents, Loki corrected himself bitterly – to try to speak again of his misactions that day.

So Loki sat by Sif's bedside. The lights were half-dimmed, the shadows long and wane. The healers were gone for the time being, aiding their Lady in a last ditched effort to find a cure. Distantly, Loki thought to join them, but rather than waste his time on a useless search he would rather . . .

Rather what? Spend what time she did have listening to her breathe? It was not as if he wished to be here, he told himself, he simply had nowhere else to go.

. . . he was becoming worse and worse at lying to himself, he thought darkly. This day had more black surprises than one, he reflected.

His hands rested by hers on the white sheets. A part of him wished her hand within his own, black ice or no, but he was too much a coward for that. There, the truth stank against his tongue, bitter in taste. She would not wish the touch from him, and so, he did not bother to do so.

That truth was one that ached, as a knife through rib bones. It ached nearly as much as the truth of the winter in his veins, running heart-deep through his.

No, he told himself. He would think of that later. Not now, not when . . .

Sif was shifting restlessly before him. While Eir had said that it was possible that she would recover consciousness before the end, she had also said that it was not likely, and Loki did not hold out hope that she would open her eyes to look upon him. Sif shifted uncomfortably, a little moan sounding from her throat, and at last he gave into the desire to take her hand into his own. The black ice was smooth to the touch, like the facets of a gem, and it seemed to warm beneath his touch.

Sif blinked groggily. Distantly, he thought that he should not be surprised. Sif was always moving to astound him, and this should be no different.

"Loki," she gurgled his name out weakly. "Why are you here?"

"Because Thor could not be," he rolled his shoulders as if he did not care. As if her hand in his own was not the only thing he could hold onto in the sudden mess of his life. "And it seemed . . . wrong to leave you alone." The truth was awkward on his tongue. He watched as she narrowed her eyes, as if trying to weigh his words for the presence of fact.

"You do not have to do so," she said, her words slipping groggily from her lips. "I release you from your chivalry."

He raised a brow. "And what if I do not wish to be released?"

She tried to echo his dubious look, but if came out as a grimace. Her eyes were wet, and shining. Though it was most likely his own imagination being cruel, he thought that her fingers tightened about his own.

"Silver words for me?" she croaked. "I must die more often then to earn such a token."

"No silver words," he said. His voice came out as a solemn, half-desperate thing. "Not ever."

Her smile was sad. So very sad . . . The black ice had crept up to cover the right half of her face. She looked puzzled through her good eye as he lifted a hand to trace the line that split her face in two. He felt as the ice beneath his touch shuddered.

"You look like Hel Half-alive," he teased, trying to sooth the dark look that clung to her. His attempt at humor was sad indeed.

Sif choked on a snort of laughter before sobering. Her look was pained, so very pained. "I shall meet her soon, if Eir speaks true. I have little cause to doubt her, seeing as how I can feel every ache of my bones in _acute_ detail . . ."

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his seat. "Shush," he soothed her. "I doubt . . ." but he could not lie. Not about this. Not with her.

Her own gaze was distant and far away. "I had always thought to die in battle," she said softly. "I thought Valhalla would take my soul . . . Now, to pass from this world in a sick-bed, with Hel herself waiting for possession of my spirit . . . I know not which is the greater disappointment."

"Valhalla itself would not be worthy to hold you," Loki said, and a small part of him knew he spoke the truth. The shield-maiden who defied every stereotype to be what she was, to raise and rise to War itself . . .

He admired her, was the honest truth. He always had. He admired her strength and fortitude, and the easy way her eyes would sparkle with the fight. Always had he wanted to trace the battle cry form her mouth with his tongue and touch his fingers to the throat that let loose her warring voice . . .

But not now, he thought. Such desires would die with her, and she would never know, for he had never breathed a word . . .

"I have so many regrets," she finally said. "Bound for Valhalla or the halls of Hel, I know not, but I only know . . . that for all of my years, I have not had enough time. Time enough to . . ." her body was wracked with a dull shudder. He did not imagine it, her hand tightened about his own, grasping him as if he were an anchor and she a small boat lost in a storm. He told himself that it was just the pain that made her cling to him so. Just the pain.

"It seems so silly now, how I spent my time, how I now know true aspirations and regrets . . . I wanted to tell you," she forced the words out, her speech becoming slower and slower as the ice crept over her lips.

"Shh," he silenced her. _Please_, he wanted to say. _Please don't say something we will both regret_. But it was a futile hope. The hope of a child lost at prayer. _Love me_, that hope said, and he was so very tired of hoping so. He no longer had the strength for it.

She read the look from his face as so few others could, he thought. Her hand trailed from his fingers to trace his wrist, finding the small bones there in a caress - a small affection, but an affection nonetheless. "You always see pain where you should see more," she said, and her voice was sad. Sad for him, he realized, and suddenly he could not swallow around the stone that was his throat. He could not . . .

"My lady," he said, forcing the words to take shape, and she shook her head.

"Sif," she said, squeezing her eyes shut. "My name is _Sif_. Call me by such."

"Sif," he let the one syllable roll of his tongue with a near reverence, and she seemed to lean into the sound. Her face soothed, but she still did not open her eyes.

"There," she whispered, her voice a hum in the back of her throat. "My name sounds lovely from your mouth. You have a beautiful voice, Loki. You should use it to form more pleasing things – for your own sake, as much as ours."

He looked down at her words, wishing that she would stop. Did she not see that what was left of him was breaking? Did she not see that he did not know how he would survive her loss, especially now, when it was so very clear that all he wanted was truly his brother's instead, and -

"Thor," he said without thought. "I should -"

But she gripped his wrist with a surprising strength, keeping him from leaving. "Of the many regrets I have," Sif said firmly. "He is not one of them."

Loki looked down at his hands, and then at her face. He was not sure where to rest his eyes. He was not sure of how to shape his words. He did not know anymore, he reflected ruefully. He did not know anything. Everything was in shambles around him, and he did not know how to pick up the pieces.

His brow furrowed with thought, and with a weak hand she reached up to smooth his frown lines away. Her icy thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth. Her touch trembled, as if it took every bit of strength she had to touch him as such.

"Loki," she whispered. "In Utgard, did I see . . ." she did not know how to form her words, so he did not make her try.

"Yes," he merely whispered, the truth a wound from his mouth as he spoke. "I am Jötunn-blooded. I am the monster; the nightmare. But the monster loves and the nightmare yearns, so what does that mean? What truly?"

"Ah," was all she said. But her hand still lingered. She did not fight to turn away from him. In her eyes, her eyes . . .

She had closed her eyes. The ice had spread over her mouth as she spoke. It blackened the pale skin of her throat.

"I am cold . . ." she finally said, her voice drowsy to his own ears. "Please . . ." and when she spoke, there was such a tremor to her voice. "Stay with me?" For he was not the only one with a child's wishes. A child's hopes. "I am scared," she finally admitted, even as her hand fell from his. Her voice wavered, shaking and desperate from her tongue. "Scared, and so very cold . . ."

He squeezed her hands tighter, bringing them to his mouth so that he could kiss her fingers. He felt tears at his own eyes, but for once he was not ashamed of their fall. How could he be when everything he had forced himself not to want was slipping from his grasp like water?

He watched, and her eyes closed as the black took the last of her skin. Her mouth was polished coal, the raven's wing of her hair mingling with the black of the wasteland's touch. She was no longer awake, no longer aware, but when he touched her chest, he could feel the long, slow beat of her heart. The ice had taken her skin, but not her blood. Not her lungs.

There was still time.

Loki looked up, and stared hard into the shadows, as if daring them to challenge the thought that suddenly consumed him down to his bones. This was not over.

He stood, a purpose in his movements as he bent over the sleeping woman to brush a kiss onto her deadened lips. She did not respond, did not awaken as a maiden in a fae tale. But the ice shimmered at his touch. The ice _questioned_.

And he knew what it was he had to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **I know this one is short, but the last part is long, so! It will all balance itself out. Once again, thank-you everyone who is reading, and I hope you enjoy. :)**  
**

* * *

**Part V**

The Casket of Ancient Winters sang at his approach, as if it knew his intentions as well as he. The Casket sang - a quick and beating song that was all virgin snow and the graceful swirl of frost over the water and the untamed might of avalanches in the mighty peaks.

This time, he tried to listen. This time he gave his voice to the song, even untrained as it was.

_My son, my son, my son_, the winter sang. _My son, heart of my heart, and snow of my winter_.

Loki listened, and at long last, he answered.

_Aye, that I am._

.

.

He stepped out of the shadows of the Healer's Halls holding the Casket in hand. All care he had for the keeping of his secret fled from him. He cared not who saw, he cared not who knew, he told himself. _Let them see_, the repercussions of his actions were irrelevant to him. _Let them have something to truly talk over_, he thought, a grin slashing his face open like a knife. He would hold the Casket high, and let his skin flush Jötunn blue for whatever eyes dared meet his own. Let them call him _monster_ and _stolen_, it mattered not to him.

All that mattered was _her_ in that moment. All that mattered was that _she_ knew, and she had still not recoiled from him. She had seen, she had understood, and still she had still slain the winter-prince in defense of him. Always had Sif cared little for the whispers of the court - the same barbed whispers who wagged in loose tongue against her own name. He was simply _Loki_ to her eyes, and he needed not to play at being more. He never had to, he now realized.

Instead, his own desperate need to see Thor as _less_, to see himself as _more_ . . . it had almost taken her from him. It would still take her if he did not act.

And so, act he would.

Thor had returned be the time he returned to Eir's hall. He sat at Sif's bedside with his head bowed and held in his massive hands. His brow was creased with his troubles, with his guilt, and that too Loki could sooth. That too Loki would fix._ I am sorry, brother_, he thought. _For a great many things._

But Loki could not speak. Not with the winter in his veins. Not with the heart of his people held in his hands. He was invincible as he held the Casket; a blizzard storm where before he was merely a stream of ice. Now, he was cold and white and _consuming_ . . .

There would be a spring though, Loki thought. _For her_. He would make sure of it.

"Loki," Thor's voice was a shocked sound from his mouth. His eyes held surprise – horror, Loki thought, but did not say. Thor's eyes widened as they had not since they were very young and Loki had spelled the roots of his golden hair pink. His brow furrowed and then relaxed, a pain taking place of the surprise – on_ his_ behalf, Loki realized, and he felt another ache at the thought. But no, he could not stop to think on that now.

His hands flexed around the Casket; he held it tighter. His skin was blue, bisected with swirling lines of black; lines of power, lines of heritage. Heir to the house of Laufey, the lines boasted. He who is without match in the arts of seiðr, they proclaimed for all to see. And Loki draped himself in winter-blue and ember-red and embraced the whole of his name. Son of Laufey, son of Nál; third in the line of Ymir, he who carried the worlds on his back.

He was the winter, he was the ice, and he would let the cold harm her no more.

"Brother," Loki said, even where he_ was not_. "You may wish to stand aside."

Some part of Thor – the part that trusted him still, even after everything – slowly backed away. His hands made fists, as if to swing a blow, but he backed away. His eyes flickered from Loki to Sif and then back again. He nodded, accepting.

"Brother," Thor said, the name an endearment where the blood-tie was now for not. "If you can save her . . ."

"I will try," Loki promised, his voice a deep, ethereal sound . . . and then he let the winter take him.

He felt the Casket come alive as it sank within his skin. He felt its power as it bowed to him, as it formed obeisance. It recognized him, called him _sovereign_ and _lord_, only waiting for orders so as to obey.

Loki sank down next to Sif and placed his hand against her brow. The pale blue of his skin all but glowed against the ruined black of her flesh. Both were wrong, both were _not right_, and yet one would heal where the other brought pain. Full on the power he controlled, he willed the winter to see its own wrongs, to call them back and say _no more_.

The longer he held his hand to her brow, the more and more the black retreated. The curse fell from her bones; it fled from her heart and lungs as the Casket reclaimed what had always been its own. The black broke from her skin, flaking away as fresh new growth replaced that which was ruined and decayed. He brushed the dead skin away with his hand, and Thor too came forward, helping him. He brushed the black from her brow, her cheeks and nose and finally her lips, even as they parted and her eyes fluttered . . .

The Casket quieted in his hands, even as Sif blinked, opening her eyes. Confusion rippled across her face for but a moment until understanding struck, and she was looking everywhere she could all at once - from the pale blue and marbled white of his skin to the flame of his eyes to the bold stamp of his house, ground into his very skin.

She raised a hand, still weak, as if to touch him, and something inside of him broke at the motion. He could not let her.

He straightened from her, even as she sat upright in her bed, looking down at the skin of her hands as if she could not believe that it was her own. "Loki?" she whispered, a question in her voice. Such a question . . .

How could he even begin to find the words to answer.

He waved a hand, sending the Casket to an empty pocket of space. Without his hold on the winter's heart, the touch of blue faded from his skin. He blinked and knew his gaze to show green again when she blinked, as if adjusting, and -

"I shall alert the Healer," he said, turning from Sif's stare . . . turning from _Thor's_ stare. He was not sure which he avoided more. "It is good to see you as yourself again, my lady."

The words tripped from his tongue as if fleeing, even as he took his leave as quickly as he could, telling himself that it was not a retreat on his part. _It was not_.

He was simply leaving where he had not been wanted to stay . . . behind him, none were the feet that followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: **As always, thank-you everyone who has taken the time to read and leave your thoughts. This story has been quite the fun side-trip for my muse, and I am glad you all were able to come along. :)

* * *

**Part VI  
****  
**He wandered for he knew not how long.

He should have been tired, his mind wearily told him. He had not slept at all the night before when anticipating Thor's kingship upon the sunrise, and war was always taxing on its own without the further complications their latest skirmish brought them . . . He waved a hand, sending his armor away in favor of simple linens and leathers. He uttered a quick spell to freshen his appearance, but he still did not turn towards his rooms. He felt as a stranger as he walked the paths he had known for centuries, every step before him suddenly new. Every hall and balcony and room seemed to greet him as if for the first time, and he greeted them in turn.

_I am Loki, son of Laufey_, he said into the shadows as he passed, but the words rang false, even to his ears. _I am Loki, born of Laufey, __b__ut Asgard is my home._ Truer still did this sound, but harder still was it to tell wish from truth at times.

He had come to alow level of the palace, wherehalf of the massive hall was left open to the night sky and the mad swirl of the cosmos above. The great river that bisected Asgard's capitol widened where the Risar falls emptied into a large basin, forming a lake of its own that glittered as a mirror, reflecting the play of the stars above. His eye tangled with the waves, finding the restless tempo of the tides and unconsciously mimicking them with the tap of his fingers on the railing. It was a small song, broken only by the sound of footsteps behind him. It was a silent step that approached him, a hunter's step, but the lady had faced death not even hours before, and the step of her right boot was heavy in response.

"My Lady," he called into the darkness.

"You should not be up yet. What would Thor say?"

"It matters not what Thor would say," came the arching tone in reply. Her voice had recovered its strength, at the very least. Loki had still not turned towards her. "It matters more what Eir would say," Sif hedged, and he could imagine the tilt of her head. He imagined the flush that would darken her cheeks, staining their white curve even within the shadow. "But she had turned away, and so I took my opportunity to leave. You . . . whatever you did, it worked. Laufey's magic is nowhere to be found, and all I now need is rest."

Loki swallowed against the raise of feeling that tried to smother his breath. It settled in his throat, restless.

"I am glad for you," he said, his voice soft from his mouth.

He heard as she made a frustrated sound. He felt her hand on his shoulder

for but a moment before she was turning him, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were very bright in the non-light. They flashed with the vigor of one living, and for that gift alone, he was grateful. Truly, he was.

Truly.

"Look at me when you speak to me," she said, her voice a growl from her throat.

"My apologies, my lady," Loki said stiffly, and Sif rolled her eyes.

"_Sif_," she pressed the syllable though her teeth. "You said my name before, it should not be so hard for you to say again. _Sif_."

"Sif," he breathed, his voice working without his conscious thought. He watched as her eyes fluttered closed at the sound. When she opened them again, there was a small, sad smile on her lips.

"There," she said softly. "Was that really so difficult?"

"More than you know," he whispered, looking down to stare at his feet – at her feet – anywhere but at her too-bright eyes. He did not want to know what feeling rested there.

She sighed, an audible sound in the soft night. "Loki," she said gently. "You just saved my life, and yet you stalk the shadows like one expecting only censure and scorn. You did not even let me thank you before leaving. You did not let me take my first moments back with you."

"I did not think you would wish to," he said stiffly, the truth a horrible, awful sound from his mouth. "Not with . . ." he gestured weakly at himself, encompassing the winter-blue that was hiding somewhere beneath his skin.

She raised a brow. "You would think me that weak of heart?" she returned. "That shallow and base of character?"

"To hold no love for a monster of the ice?' Loki returned. "Nay, Sif, I would not think you shallow and base, but wise and within every reason you have been raised with."

"Loki," she breathed. "I meant what I said earlier . . . about you seeing only fault where you should see strength. So blind are you to the worth you hold that you expect the same blindness in others. It pains me to see this in you . . . it always has."

"You remember?" he asked, the first, stupid thing to roll out of his mouth. His heart was starting a sad, giddy dance in his chest. Hope was worse than the certainty of rejection, he knew. It was a feeling that bit at both ends, and he no longer had the skin to spare for its teeth. And yet . . .

"Every word," she affirmed. "I remember you at my bedside as I told you that I was craven in the face of death, that I was scared at the idea of finding the Halls of Hel rather than Valhalla's golden ways. I told you that I knew regret, and that I . . ."

"Please," Loki finally said, putting a finger to her lips to stay the rapid flow of her words. The touch was warm against his skin, and he felt her shiver as his own. "Please . . . today has been a day of revelations for me, and I am still reeling in their wake. I cannot . . ."_ I cannot handle your promises when they will prove to be for naught_, he thought. He was not strong enough. He could not . . .

"Loki," Sif said, her voice small from her mouth – small where normally she was battle bold and brilliant. She was not War before him now, but rather a woman with her heart in her hands and he understood then that he could hurt her as much as she could hurt him. He could destroy her, and her end would not come from the sharp kiss of a blade.

It was . . . humbling, that revelation. Humbling and terrifying.

"Loki," she tried again, swallowing in order to gather her voice. "Please, tell me that I am not the only one with such regrets. Tell me that I am not the only one with things left unspoken. There is so much I would see set to right, but only, only if . . ." _Only if he wanted __her__ to_, he heard the unspoken in her words, and suddenly the hope in his heart was a full blown roar of feeling. His hands made fists against the fierce, savage urge he had to claim what was given while the offer was still real upon her lips.

"Please," she breathed. "Please, just tell me . . ."

But, for once, he could not find the words to sooth her fears – to return the feelings she inelegantly expressed with those of his own. Instead, he found only actions serving him as he leaned down towards her.

Most would say that every part of Sif was hardness and steel - even Loki would think so at times, and he knew her better than most. But her lips were soft, and that first kiss was too – a surprised, searching thing until she realized what was happening, and then he felt her hands slip into his hair to cup the back of his neck and she was pulling him forcibly down to him. The kiss did not stay soft, and he could feel her teeth nip at his lower until he parted them and then her tongue rushed forward to war with his own. There was something desperate about the way they came together, the events of the day building upon each other and then shattering beneath the strain. He could not decide where to put his hands, everything seemed to warrant his exploration – from the curve of her hips to the warm skin of her arms to the rippling muscles of her back. Her hair was still bound in a long braid from the sick-bed, and he wanted nothing more than to unwind it in that moment and feel the silken masses slide through his fingertips. She wore only a thin linen shift, and he could feel the curve of her breasts as they pressed against her chest - everything about her soft and hard in turns, and he felt his mind go hazy at the flood of sensation and the thought of _finally_ that was pouring into him.

But a moment later he had her pressed against one of the ornate pillars that lined the hall, and Sif was doing her best to wind herself around him as her nails scratched at his back and he tasted blood from their kiss – he was not sure from who – and he realized how very intimately entwined they were for anyone to see. He broke from their kiss, amused when she tried to follow him, her strong hands insistent as they pushed against him. Her eyes when they flickered open were half aware and hazy, their hazel shade having taken on bright tones of blue and brown. This close, he could see the flickers of gold within, even as they blinked and she tried to come back to herself. He watched her flush pink as he took a step back from her – not yet leaving the circle of her arms, but distancing himself enough to truly look at her, suddenly anxious for any sign of displeasure or acceptance from her.

But she was smiling softly, and the tight rope of her braid was loosened from his fingers, and she wore both battle-lust and the fever of the hunt in her eyes, but it was for _him. _A greedy, possessive part of him hungered at the look – wanting it for himself always, even as he opened his mouth as if trying to find the words to speak. She traced one fond finger from the corner of his mouth to his brow and back again, as if unwilling to break contact with him, and for a moment he could not make sense of her actions.

"You would let me kiss you?" he stammered out, even though they were the last words he wanted to say. "I, a stolen son of Jötunnheimr. And even if I were not, I would still be the second son beneath Thor the Mighty who would have your hand if you but_ breathed_ his name . . . Why . . . _how_?"

"Because you are _Loki_," she answered, something soft invading her eyes. "And I have stopped questioning my reasons just as I hope you someday will. It . . . pains me to see the pressure you mount on your own shoulders, and I would see that gone in favor of what _I_ see before me . . . What I have _always_ seen before me."

"You have cared for me . . . all of this time?" Loki asked, the question stammering and stupid to his own ears.

But she only smiled with affection in her eyes, and simply answered, "Yes."

"Most would say that you hate the very air I breathe. I have had nothing but your barbs and your glares for centuries," Loki pointed out, his words breaking light in response to the heavy feeling that had built in his bones since Utgard. "And I had thought . . ."

"Glares?" Sif said, teasing. "I had thought my looks to be _sultry_."

He raised a brow, not believing her.

"Some of the time," she admitted. "At other times, you fully warranted my ire. And I am not the only one to offer my barbs – and I know that you enjoy my words, so do not act as if you do not."

He huffed, but did not disagree, instead leaning forward so that he could rest his forehead against hers. He was suddenly weary in that moment, but it was a contentment he felt, the same tired feeling that came with a battle's end when they had found triumph on the field. His fingers could not stay away from playing with the long plait of her braid.

"You would have me then?" he asked, his voice small . . . so very small. "The stolen, monstrous -"

" - I would have _Loki_," Sif interrupted him. "And all that he is."

Warmth; he felt it surround him, he basked it it. It was so foreign a feeling after the events of the day – the revelations and the desperate struggles and the winter taking them both . . .

"Are you cold?" he asked, feeling as she shivered in his arms. Worry peaked in his voice, but her smile was soft in reply.

"Perhaps," she tilted her head. "A very little. The air is cool in here."

From beyond, the wind blew in from across the water. He felt the bare skin of her arms prickle at the touch. "The lady lies as well as I," Loki said, but there was fondness in his voice when he said so.

"Not quite," but she wrapped her arms tighter around him, even still. "But I welcome your warmth, even still . . . and in that there is a truth."

.

.

It took the better part of three days for Eir to release her patient from her care, and a day longer than that before Thor found Loki in the Vault, staring down at the Casket he had returned only moments before. This time, Loki looked on the Casket, and felt a peace soothing at his skin. While he found 'acceptance' too strong a word, he knew he was well on the path to doing so. He felt peace in his bones, an ease of heart that he had not felt in centuries. Between every possible moment spent with Sif, and the unseen weight lifted from his relationship with his parents (_his_ parents, he had to force the thought), he felt . . . home within his skin, as he had not in an age. The veil of a lie and the open acknowledgment of prophesy vanishing between them had laid the start of strengthening his relationship with Odin. The Allfather was quicker to simply _speak_ with him now, taking his opinions and councils and offering his own in return. He had never truly been in his father's confidence before – or taken Odin in his, for that matter, and the change was still surreal to him . . . surreal, and yet, not unwelcome.

He had not needed to seek out the Allmother that night when Sif returned to Eir's halls, instead Frigg had sought him out, embracing him without a word and whispering_ my son_ into his hair as she had not since he was very small. He had clung to her, and she had spoken to him long into morning hour, telling him the story of his herritage. She spoke of her knowing his birth-mother before the peace between Laufey and Odin had snapped. She told him of Nál's unmatched might as an enchantress, and the complications with the Jötunn's queen's last pregnancy that had resulted in his small stature. She spoke of the lines on his face, explaining how they spoke of his bloodlines and his might as an enchanter both – how more markings would come over the years as his powers grew. For the Jötunn carried their magicks with pride as they who were born of the Mother's elemental might, and in their ranks, Loki's prestige would have been great indeed.

He stood with his hands besides the Casket now, careful not to touch it. Instead, he simply let the winter's song sooth at his soul. He felt it as a caress against his skin, and Thor was silent for a moment, watching him with something Loki could not name in his eyes.

"I have made my apologies to Jötunnheimr," Thor said softly by way of introduction. "Our peace will be tenuous, but both Laufey and I would see no more sons lost to war. I . . . only days have passed, and it may well be an millennia for the feel of it in my bones. I do not feel to be the same person. Instead I feel . . ."

"Grounded?" Loki offered. "As if grasping something you had long thought beyond your reach?"

"Yes," Thor answered simply, never one who felt the need to hide when another gave him aid. He stood on the opposite side of the Casket, looking down at the winter trapped within. His great arms were crossed, his brow was creased with thought. There was a peace that emanated from him like something living, and Loki felt . . . pride upon seeing him as such. For so long he had been content with his hate, with his jealousy. In that time, he had fallen away from truly knowing his brother, and a part of him looked forward to getting to know him again.

That was . . . if he wished it to be so. Loki swallowed.

"Then you will wait?" Loki asked. "Or do you take Father's throne as planned?"

"Father must partake in his Sleep," Thor answered after a moment. "He shall take his rest, and I will watch over Asgard until he can again give his eye to her rule. But . . . until Father takes his final sleep, I shall merely watch as his second, and learn what I may. I will not call myself King until I am equal to the task, and I . . . I thank you. I would never have reached this point if not for you. I . . . you are dear to me, Loki. Whether born of our father's blood or Laufey's blood, or even the blood of a troll - it matters not to me."

Loki felt his mouth work, even though no sound came. Next to the Casket, his fingers had taken up a restless rhythm upon the stone column. Thor looked, and saw his jaw lock, his voice work as it tried to gain sound.

"Can I see it?" Thor asked simply, giving him his moment.

"See what?" Loki replied, feigning ignorance. His voice shook when he gave it.

"You act as if I shall recoil in horror," Thor complained – something of the petulant breaking into his voice, and it was his brother as he had long known him to his ears. "I shall not."

Loki raised a brow, and Thor's cheek's flushed. "Well, you know me ill at concealing my thoughts . . ." he admitted. "Show me, and perhaps you will know that I speak true when I tell you that you are still Loki to my heart as you have ever been."

Loki chewed at the inside of his mouth. He could think of no reason to say no that did not speak of his own doubt in the other and the insecurities that were all his own, and so he let his hands rest upon the Casket again. He let the winter greet him, hearing her fond song as she touched his skin and breathed frost into his bones.

When he opened his eyes, he knew them to be ember-red. He exhaled, and could feel his breath frost on the air. He watched as Thor's eyes widened minutely, but it was a look that Loki was long since used to – having seen it nearly every time he came to his brother with a new trick or spell to show to him. And now he watched as Thor's eyes traveled, taking in the blue of his skin, and the black lines upon it. He waited, expecting disgust or hate, but neither came. Instead his look was merely curious. He wanted to understand, Loki thought, even as he held his breath.

Thor reached out, as if to touch one of the elegant scrolls on the back of his hand, but he did not. Instead he swallowed. The feeling was very bright in his face, like sunlight, Loki thought, feeding all below.

"I know not how I ever looked at the Jötnar and saw _monster_," Thor finally said. "We have been wrong about so many things, and I would see those wrongs righted . . . with your help."

Loki raised a brow, questioning. How he wanted to believe the words he heard, and yet . . .

"You can't very well see me ruling without you?" Thor sounded amused at his hesitance and surprise – which was such a foreign reversal of their roles that Loki nearly snorted aloud at it. "I shall bankrupt the Realm within a season if not for your steady hand at my side. And without your silver words we shall be at war even sooner than that. No, you will be an adviser to my reign, a trusted and revered one, at that. I shall be nothing without you, brother. But . . . together. With us together, I do believe that Asgard shall flourish with such a reign."

For a moment, Loki felt small beneath the strength of the other's regard. But it was not a smallness of shame, but rather a humbled awe. He felt . . . honored by Thor's regard. Honored and unworthy when he had spent so much of his own time in petty jealousies and insecurities.

"You would have a frost giant whisper to the crown of Asgard?" Loki finally found his voice, at long last.

"I would have my _brother_ whisper to the crown, yes," Thor corrected without even pausing to consider his words. "I would have my brother say his words loud for all to hear, and know that we two are who keep the crown of Búri safe, and all nine of the Realms at peace. I would have you by my side, for as long as your years may be – my _brother_."

A moment, a long moment, passed. And then . . .

"Brother," Loki said, the word near reverent on his tongue. "Then a brother I will be."

Thor placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding his pleasure at his words. Loki felt himself stand up straighter at the weight, the words he spoke settling into his heart like truth.

And . . . if a part of him doubted, if a part of him still did not believe, he would simply say the words again and again until they were as truth to his ears. He would be both brother and son as Thor was brother and son, and he would not listen for the lie in those he would slay his insecurities with the strength of Thor's belief . . . with the strength of Sif's belief, he knew.

He would wait for that day to come . . . but by then, he would no longer be listening for he difference.


End file.
